


On The Curve

by Nellie



Series: On The Curve [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Desk Sex, First Time, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/pseuds/Nellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Arthur is a sixteen year-old academic prodigy. Eames is a professor. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Curve

**Author's Note:**

> Another entry in the I WILL PRACTICE MY PORN-FU chronicles. Utterly ridiculous self-indulgent porn which combines a penchant for older men, jailbait, professors, and Eames in glasses. As always, I will blame Lydia until the day I die. [SUCH AN ENABLER (NSFW ART).](http://community.livejournal.com/92qp/7375.html) <3 And also thank her for remaining the best beloved beta. ALSO thanks to Cesare for giving a sleep deprived Australian a title; no, I can't make up my own today obviously.  Crit welcome and encouraged as always.

  
Arthur barely waits to sit down before he opens his mouth. “I want the Assistant Professor position.”

Eames isn’t surprised. He isn’t surprised by the phrasing either... not “I’m interested in”, not “I want to talk to you about”. Pure, upfront, _I want_.

He takes off his glasses and looks across the desk at Arthur. He’s dressed down today, skinny jeans and a t-shirt, and still manages to carry himself with the kind of complete self-assurance no sixteen year old should have.

“The ink on your PhD hasn’t even had time to dry yet,” Eames says finally.

Arthur just snorts. “So?” He uncrosses his legs, still just that little bit too long for his body, and folds them in the opposite direction.

Eames lets his eyes slide along the lean length, practically poured into those jeans, and for the millionth time wonders when he started noticing the provocative way Arthur moves, like everything he does is some kind of show.

He wonders if Arthur only ever does it for him.

“So,” Eames continues, brushing the thoughts aside, “you’re not going to get it.”

“Why not?” The words are petulant, and the tone makes Eames grit his teeth.

“Has nobody ever told you no before, Arthur?”

Arthur shrugs. “You do all the time. But this is bullshit and you know it.”

It’s really not. But Arthur has the kind of smug confidence Eames supposes only comes from a lifetime of being utterly secure in your own brilliance. He’d first sat in that chair in front of Eames’s desk as a wide-eyed eleven year old, his feet barely even reaching the ground. Eames had made the mistake of thinking the kid was scared.

Of course, then Arthur had opened his mouth and blown that assumption right out the window. Eames had sworn then he’d never forget that the baby face is nothing more than a thin shell over adult-sharp wit. But it’s still hard sometimes, like now, looking at Arthur sprawled comfortably in the antique armchair. He looks like he belongs in high school. He _does_ belong in high school, and yet somehow he fits in here better than some of the other students ever will.

At this rate, he’ll be well on his way to tenure by the time he’s twenty. And to be honest, that’s almost sexier than the way his arse looks when he’s leaning over a library table, or the sharp look he gets in his eyes when he’s feeling piqued.

Arthur’s wearing that sharp look right now.

“Look. Even with the PhD you don’t have the publication or research record.” Eames taps his glasses against the desk. “Why don’t you just take some time off. Go on holiday. Get a girlfriend.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I don’t like girls.”

This is true, and Eames knows it. It just doesn’t do to let himself remember it too often. “A boyfriend then. Anything. You can come back next semester and teach.” He stands up and circles the desk, leaning against the edge closest to Arthur.

Arthur looks up at him, uncrossing his legs and sprawling even deeper in the chair, knees wide. “I don’t want a holiday, and I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want to take a semester off.”

“What do you want, then? Apart from this job,” Eames amends quickly.

There’s a moment of silence while Arthur drums his fingers against the armrest of the chair. Then he looks up again and meets Eames’s eyes steadily. “I want you,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather, like he’s not staring at Eames with come-hither eyes and licking his bottom lip like some bad porn star.

Eames tightens his grip on the edge of the desk. “What?” he says, even though he knows exactly what Arthur said.

Arthur shrugs and crosses his legs again. “I had two things I wanted this semester. The assistant position, and for you to fuck me once you weren’t my supervisor anymore.”

“Arthur, that’s...” _amazing. fantastic. awesome._ “wildly inappropriate.”

“Why? You’re not my teacher. I’m legal; in this state anyway.”

Eames is gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to hurt, but it’s not really helping him focus. “I... Arthur.”

It’s not his most coherent moment, and Arthur just raises an eyebrow. Then he sighs, and scoops up his bag as he unfolds his legs and stands up. “Sorry. Forget about it. I thought you wanted to.”

“It’s not that simple,” Eames says, wishing the blood would stop rushing in his ears long enough for him to think clearly.

“It’s very simple,” Arthur retorts, letting his satchel drop drop to the floor and taking two steps forward. It puts them close together, toe to toe, and Eames has a couple of seconds to take a deep breath in before Arthur grabs his lapels and kisses him hard on the mouth.

“You either want to do me, or you don’t,” Arthur continues when he draws back, not letting go of Eames’s jacket.

Eames takes a deep, shuddering breath, because he’s not made of stone, and Arthur is pressed up against him saying things he’s hardly even dared to imagine before.

He loosens his grip on the desk slowly, watching Arthur’s face as he lifts his hands to rest lightly on Arthur’s narrow waist, flexing his fingers a little against the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

That must be all the encouragement Arthur needs, because within seconds he’s leaning in again, running his tongue along Eames’s bottom lip and _god_ , it’s not a timid, inexperienced kiss at all. It’s a kiss like Arthur knows the fuck what he wants and he’s going to get it, dammit, and it’s enough to make the last frayed strands of Eames’s resolve snap like a dime store rubber band.

He tightens his grip on Arthur's waist, tugging him in close and deepening the kiss into something filthy and wet that makes Arthur moan.

"If I'd known just saying it would get you to notice me, I would have done it months ago," Arthur says between kisses, grinding against Eames's thigh.

"I noticed," Eames says. "I was just...." he trails off when Arthur slides his tongue back into his mouth, and shifts his hands to hands to palm Arthur's arse instead.

Arthur slips his fingers into Eames's hair and rocks against him, and Eames wonders vaguely how many boys Arthur has kissed. Wonders what _else_ he might be good at with his mouth, and that’s a dangerous, dangerous train of thought when they’re already rubbing against each other and this has already gone far further than it should have.

He’s about to say no, he really is, but then Arthur kisses along Eames’s jaw, nuzzling at his earlobe, and whispers “I want you to fuck me.”

Eames groans, burying his nose against Arthur’s hair and breathing deep. It’s meant to calm him down, something gentle and intimate compared to the frantic push of their hips and the feel of Arthur’s arse under his hands, but it just goes straight to his groin. Arthur smells _amazing_ , and it’s sheer force of will that lets Eames push him back a little. “I can’t,” he says. The words are almost physically painful to say while Arthur is looking at him with tousled hair and wet lips and looking like the very epitome of fuckable.

Arthur frowns. “So what, I’m old enough to have a Dr in front of my name, but not old enough to have sex with you?” He takes one of Eames’s hands and pushes it away from his arse, dragging it around until Eames’s fingers are resting lightly over his erection. Eames can feel the heat, the solid weight of it through the denim, and his fingers itch to press harder.

He doesn’t have to, though, because Arthur rocks his hips forward into the contact, leaning in to bite gently at Eames’s earlobe. “Come on,” he says, breath hot against Eames’s skin. “I want you to.”

Eames lets out a shaky breath, counts to three and tries to ignore the fact that Arthur’s cock is hard under his hand. But he feels too hot, like there’s pressure building under his skin, and he curls his fingers slightly just to hear Arthur’s sudden exhale.

“You want me to fuck you,” he says softly, nose still pressed against Arthur’s hair.

“Yes.” The word sounds strangled

“You want me to...” Eames shifts his grip, grabbing Arthur’s hips again and turning him round, nudging him against the edge of the desk until he splays his hands on top of the papers already strewn there. Eames rests his weight against the curve of Arthur’s spine, feeling his chest heave. “You want me to fuck you, just like this? You don’t even want me to take you home and screw you into my mattress?” It takes more willpower than it should not to punctuate the words with a few hard thrusts against Arthur’s arse.

“I’ve thought about it before,” Arthur says, defiant.

Eames pauses, smoothing his hands down over Arthur’s ribs. The gesture is as much to soothe himself as it is to reassure Arthur, and he runs his hands down until they’re resting on his hips once more. “And what, you think I just keep condoms and lube in my desk drawer?”

“In my bag,” Arthur says.

Of course. Competent Arthur, always prepared Arthur. “You really came in here expecting this to happen, didn’t you?”

“Well, it’s going to. Isn’t it?” Arthur grinds his arse back against Eames’s erection as if to make a point.

Eames isn’t sure he likes being so predictable, especially when it comes to improper attraction to a particular prodigious sixteen year old. But Arthur feels so good pressed beneath him, arching his spine and rocking his hips back, breathless, and Eames figures life’s too bloody short to spend worrying what society might think if they found out.

“You’ll need to be wearing fewer clothes for that,” Eames says, leaning down to rummage in the satchel Arthur left lying on the floor. By the time he stands up and puts the bottle and the foil packet down on the edge of the desk, Arthur has kicked off his jeans.

Eames swallows hard at the sight, long legs slightly spread, the pale curve of his arse. He touches the back of one thigh experimentally, watches the goosebumps rise along Arthur’s skin, and reaches for the lube. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, spreading his legs a little more and looking back over his shoulder. “Come on.”

He slicks his fingers and presses his clean hand against the curve of Arthur’s arse, trying to remind himself that he knows what he’s doing. But for all that he’s used to seeing Arthur bending over things, benches and tables and lecterns, it’s an entirely different thing having that arse naked and bent over for _him_.

The way Arthur’s thighs are trembling should be answer enough, but Eames asks anyway. “Has anyone ever touched you here?”

“Just... just me,” Arthur says, hissing when Eames spreads him open and slips the first finger in. “I’ve got a dildo in my dorm that I... _fuck_ , fuck myself with sometimes.”

Eames squeezes his eyes shut at the thought, because the image alone of Arthur naked on his back, legs crooked up and spread wide while he rolls his hips down onto a slick toy, is almost enough to make him come in his pants. Which would be ridiculously embarrassing for a man currently riding the wrong edge of forty.

Instead he focuses on how Arthur feels, tight and hot around his finger, back arching to try and take him deeper. He wants to bury his cock in that heat, which won’t happen if he blows it like a teenager. “Do you think about me when you do it?” Eames says, and barely recognises the raw sound of his own voice.

“ _All the fucking time_.” Arthur’s spine arches into an impossible curve as Eames works another finger inside him.

Within a minute Arthur is rocking down onto Eames’s fingers. “You’re not going to break me,” he pants, bucking back hard enough for Eames to feel the jolt through his wrist. “More.”

Eames braces a hand on the small of Arthur’s back with just enough pressure to stop him from thrusting. “Shh. Sometimes less,” he curls his fingers deliberately, and smiles when Arthur cries out, a mixed sound of surprise and pleasure, “is more.”

He can see the tremors running down Arthur’s back, and rubs his thumb soothingly across the ridges of his spine while he fucks him slowly with two fingers. It’s tight, but Arthur’s relaxing like he’s used to the intrusion so they glide in and out easily. If Arthur didn’t just say as much, Eames wouldn’t even believe he’s a virgin.

 _That_ thought makes his cock jump, and he thrusts in deep and spreads his fingers wide just to hear the sounds Arthur’s making jump up an octave.

"That... that's... oh fuck."

"Better than your dildo?" Eames murmurs, leaning forward to nuzzle the nape of Arthur's neck.

" _Yes_ ," Arthur says, spine arching even further under Eames's hand.

He doesn't relent, even when Arthur starts writhing, making desperate sounds that ring loud in the otherwise quiet office. Eames just holds him still and fingers him harder but just as slowly. If he's going to take Arthur’s virginity over a desk in his office, he's at least going to make sure it's so fucking good that Arthur will be feeling it for weeks.

Arthur's slippery and warm around his fingers, nowhere near as tight as before. Eames adds more lube anyway, watching the way it slides over Arthur's hole and around his fingers where they're stretching him open. God, his cock is throbbing, pressing hard against his fly, and he just wants to undo his pants, thrust in and fuck Arthur face first into the desk until he comes sobbing Eames's name.

But Eames has more control than that. He bites down on his lower lip and withdraws his fingers before pushing back in with three, working more lube inside Arthur, twisting gently until he finds the rhythm that forces the most attractive sounds from his throat.

"Eames," he pants, fingers clawing uselessly at the hardwood beneath his hands. "I'm... oh fuck I'm gonna..."

Arthur doesn't have to finish the sentence. Eames can feel the way his inner muscles are pulsing, can see the violent tremor in his legs. "Not yet," he whispers, lips brushing the damp skin just behind Arthur's ear. He slows his thrusts even more, long, languid slides of his fingers all the way out before easing slowly back in as deep as he can go. "Have you come without touching your cock before?"

Arthur shakes his head, breathing harsh.

"Don't touch yourself now, alright," Eames instructs and starts picking up speed. Not a lot, but enough to start putting an already overstimulated sixteen year old over the edge.

Arhur tenses, every muscle in his body going tight, clenching down hard around Eames's fingers. Eames lets him rock back a little, not enough to really get the rhythm he wants, but enough to have him shaking and panting within a few seconds.

Eames pushes Arthur’s t-shirt up higher, running his free hand down Arthur’s quivering spine. He wants to push harder... he wants to slow down again, drag Arthur back and forth from the edge of orgasm until he’s wound so tight he won’t even know what hit him when he comes. But Eames doesn’t know Arthur’s limits, can’t read his body well enough to tell for sure how close he is. He gives it another five seconds before pulling his fingers free and fumbling with his own fly, shoving his trousers down and reaching for the condom.

“Eames,” Arthur hisses, hips jerking.

“I know, love,” he says, fingers trembling as he rolls the condom on and strokes Arthur’s thigh. Arthur bucks into the contact and Eames grabs his hips, holding him still enough to barely, just barely push his cock in. He grits his teeth, because it’s been far, far too long and he shouldn’t feel as close to coming as he does. “Ready?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur says. “Please, just... fuck. Fuck me.”

It’s all the encouragement Eames needs to tighten his grip on Arthur’s hips and pull him slowly back onto his cock, ignoring the molten feeling in the pit of his stomach that makes him want to thrust in hard and fast and careless.

“Oh god, fuck, fuck, Eames,” Arthur pants, fast and high pitched like he’s about to break, even though he takes Eames easily. “Just... fuck.”

Eames leans forward and presses a breathless kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” The words come out more controlled than he feels with Arthur’s tight heat wrapped around his cock.

“I know,” Arthur says, using his hands on the desk as leverage to push back, shuddering. “ _God_.”

Eames digs his fingers into Arthur’s hipbones and tries to breathe deep. He knows he’s fucked, on the verge of coming just from pushing in, but he’s not about to let this end without Arthur falling apart first.

He slides one hand around, splaying his fingers low on Arthur’s stomach, almost but not quite touching his cock. The skin is soft and warm, trembling, and Eames presses down firmly.

Arthur moans, thrusting back hard and Eames doesn’t stop him this time, letting him take what he needs. It’s only a few seconds before Arthur cries out, bucking violently between Eames’s hand and cock. He holds Arthur while he shudders, feeling warm come drip down his fingers.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs against Arthur’s shoulder, rocking his own hips forward. Under any other circumstances he’d be embarrassed by how quickly he comes, a few quick thrusts and he’s done, gasping hard against the crook of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur’s still slumped forward over the desk and Eames kisses his shoulder again, the curve of his throat, the nape of his neck, letting his racing pulse slow to something vaguely resembling normal before straightening up and pulling out. It’s hard to stand up, muscles in his thighs still shaking, but he peels off the condom and reaches for the tissue box.

“Here,” Eames says, tucking a few under Arthur’s hand before cleaning himself up and pulling up his trousers. “Are you okay?” He trails his fingers across Arthur’s bare lower back, watching the way his skin twitches.

“I’m okay.” Arthur’s voice is hoarse as he straightens up

Eames hesitates, feeling like he should say something else. Arthur seems non-plussed, though, pragmatically wiping himself down. Eames can’t remember exactly how he felt after being fucked for the first time, but he’s reasonably sure he wasn’t as calm as Arthur looks now.

A sudden sinking feeling cuts through the warm, post-orgasm sensation. “This... doesn’t change anything. You’re not getting that job,” Eames says.

Arthur glares at him, offended, as he bins the tissues and wriggles his jeans back up over his hips. “I didn’t fucking expect it to. I wanted you to fuck me because I wanted you to fuck me. That’s it.” He smooths his t-shirt down and stoops to grab his bag. “I didn’t expect you to fix the job for me and I didn’t expect you to like me. I’m not _stupid_.”

Eames blinks. Then, he laughs.

“ _What_?” Arthur says, scowl deepening.

Eames reaches out and brushes a few damp strands of hair away from Arthur’s face. “Darling, I’ve always liked you.”

His scowl falters, fingers tensing on the strap of his satchel. “Oh.”

Really, the emotion making his chest feel tight is probably a whole lot more than just ‘like’, but Eames doesn’t say that. He just looks at Arthur, standing there looking thoroughly fucked and precocious and just a little bit vulnerable, and smiles softly. “Did you bring your car, or did you catch the bus?”

“Uh, I drove.”

Eames picks up his glasses and puts them back on. “Give me your hand.”

Arthur looks confused, but obeys. His hand is warm, and Eames can’t help deliberately tangling their fingers together. Then he picks up a marker from amongst the scattered stationary on the desk. “I have work to do for another hour or so,” he says, writing on the back of Arthur’s hand. “But this is my address. Come over tonight if you like. We can talk.”

“Just talk?” Arthur asks suspiciously, holding up his hand to examine the words there.

“And more than talk, if you want,” Eames says. “Whatever you want.”  



End file.
